


You're Not A Distraction

by chocolatechipcumbercookie (labelleplume)



Series: The Distraction of Sherlock Holmes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Breakup, But it gets better I swear, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love, Reunion, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelleplume/pseuds/chocolatechipcumbercookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to the Distract Me story and takes place a few months later.  This was inspired by a request wondering what would happen to the relationship between the reader and Sherlock if Irene Adler came into the picture.  The beginning is sad but I swear it gets better towards the end!</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not A Distraction

So this is how it ends.

You stare out the cab windows at the dreary city going by. Pale wisps of fog cling to the passing buildings and droplets of rain slowly slide across the glass. The last few months seem like a far off fairytale that happened to someone else. Nothing that good could last long. You knew that from the beginning. One day, you knew, he would grow bored of you and move on.

The cab slows in the nighttime traffic. This must be the longest cab ride in history. It doesn’t matter. Whether you’re in the cab or at your flat, nothing would be able to distract you from your thoughts that run the last several weeks back through your head over and over again searching for your mistake. Searching for what you could’ve done to prevent it from happening. Prevent Sherlock from ever meeting Irene Adler.  
~  
“Would you like some tea?” John calls from the kitchen. You don’t look up, afraid of breaking your concentration. This is your third game of chess with Sherlock. Unsurprisingly, he beat you the previous two times but in your defense, it’s taking him successively longer each time.

Ever since that wonderful day in the flat when John was out at the hospital, life with Sherlock had been fairly blissful. John’s for the most part, supportive. You laugh remembering the awkward transition period where John was no longer the sole companion that Sherlock sought. But John was happy to see Sherlock happy, and that’s all he really cared about.

“Checkmate,” Sherlock says smoothly as he triumphantly moves his queen across the board. You pout, annoyed that he circumvented your defense once again. Sherlock reaches out to cup your cheek.

“Next time,” he promises you and you snicker. Sherlock’s expression is too innocent to fool you. John comes over with the tea and you scoot over on the couch to let him sit next to you.

“Here, you trying playing with him. I need to rest my brain,” you say good naturedly. As they reset the board, you get up and stretch your muscles. Sherlock’s phone rings. He checks it and turns it off. John’s phone rings almost like an echo and he picks up.

“Mycroft?” he says in surprise. You smile, imagining Mycroft’s irritated expression at being ignored by his younger brother.

“Of course,” John continues and hands the phone to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow in distaste but he takes the phone.

“What is it this time?” he asks. You and John wait in silence trying to ascertain the situation while Sherlock listens.

“Just give her what she wants. This isn’t a case,” Sherlock replies brusquely, “She doesn’t want money? A power play…” After another few moments he ends the call and pulls on his coat hanging by the door.

“Come on then,” Sherlock calls, stringing on his blue tasseled scarf, “I’ll explain on the way there.”  
~  
You massage your face with your hands, tired of the endless repeat of events in your mind. Leaning your head against the car door, the cool glass soothes the headache you can feel forming.

“Long day?” the cab driver asks. You glance at him. He seems genuinely concerned for your welfare. A tall handsome man, you wonder how he became a cab driver. You give a short laugh.

“If only…” you trail off.

“Seems like that most of the time doesn’t it?” he asks congenially, then continues, “Whenever I’m having a bad day I just find a good book to keep me company with a mug of hot chocolate. Works wonders.” You give a tired smile.

“That sounds wonderful.” You continue to look at him through the rearview mirror. Handsome and intelligent. How often do you find that? You keep staring at him, hoping some sort of miracle will come over you. No… He’s likeable enough, but you don’t like him. It’s too soon. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to find anyone that would be able to make you forget about Sherlock. If anyone could even come close to comparing.  
~  
You return with John to find Sherlock sitting on the couch with a nude Irene Adler standing in front of him.

“Oh look,” she says, looking over both you and John, “you brought company.” Irene paces back and settles in an armchair. Her sinuous movements and the hint of a purr in her voice give you a distinct feline impression. You glance back at Sherlock, but he doesn’t look at you, keeping his concentration fixed on her. You control yourself, this is no time to be interfering in his work. It’s one of the reasons why he lets you accompany him to cases. You know when to help and when you’d only be in the way.

As they banter, each trying to gain the upper hand, you watch the progression of the conversation. The more you see, the more you have to try to suppress the sense of jealousy roiling inside of you. Irene, the dominatrix, who did she think she was to be so coy with Sherlock? And why was Sherlock’s attention so focused on her? You know that he always becomes engrossed in a case, but it seems like he’s concentrated on her a little more than you would like. You shake your head a little to get rid of the thoughts. Stop it, you tell yourself, you’re being ridiculous.

“Could you put something on? Anything, a napkin?” John asks uncomfortably, holding up some of the first aid supplies he brought with him. Sherlock and Irene are standing again, her full form quite apparent and very attractive. Silently, you agree but don’t speak for fear of giving her ammunition to use against Sherlock.

“Why?” Irene asks seductively, lowering eyes to look at John through her lashes, “Does it bother you?” Before John could respond, Sherlock slides off his long coat and hands it to her. Your initial pleasure fades as you watch her bundle up in Sherlock’s dark trench coat. The very coat you had put on so many times when your own clothes failed to protect you from the cold. The pleasant memories of Sherlock with his arm around you, wrapping you up in his warmth and the scent of rain that was imbued in the coat, seem tainted now.  
~  
You grimace bitterly in the backseat. That was only the first of the many times Irene claimed something that had once belonged to you. First, it was the coat. Then the time you returned with John and Sherlock to find her sleeping in his bedroom. That was _your_ domain. No other woman was allowed to enter it. But there she was. Irene had so casually violated all the boundaries you thought were so secure. You clutch at your arm, your nails digging into the skin leaving red half-crescents to join the countless others you’ve given yourself over the last week. The sharp sting keeps the dark wave of hurt that threatens to crash over you at bay.

But the worst, the worst is when Sherlock stopped allowing you to come to the encounters he had with Irene. No real explanation, just an abrupt, “I don’t think it’s safe.” It was at that moment you knew you had lost him. John had been in the room at the time. You only looked at him, and saw the worry in your eyes reflected back at you in his. How you had managed to smile at Sherlock and murmur, “Sure, I’ll just wait for you to come back,” you’ll never know. They returned; you asked them how it went. Sherlock simply said, “Fine.” You took your leave then, you wouldn’t have been able to keep up the facade much longer.

Which brings you to your decision today. The last few months with Sherlock, how could you even describe them? It reminded you of how you felt when you first came to London. There was so much to do, so many people, and the city was so vast. Everything was exciting and new. Sherlock had reintroduced you to London. The city had lost some of it’s lustre in the time you had spent there but with him at your side everything seemed just a bit brighter. He was the shot of adrenaline in your life; you had never felt so alive. The world had opened up to you, there was a whole other side of mystery and curiosity that you had never tapped into before. And to have all of that, to watch it miserably fade off on the sidelines while Irene waltzes in your place. You couldn’t possibly bear it. So you wrote a simple letter to Sherlock. Placed it on the kitchen table along with your keys to the flat, and left.

You didn’t wait for him. He would find it soon enough. It was ironic. Your relationship had started off with all the brilliance and heat of lightning. Just a flash, and then it was gone. The rumbling thunder of Irene had already passed. Now you were left with the darkness and the silence. You left quietly, slipping away into the night.

A tear traces a glimmering trail down your cheek and you remember the last few lines of a poem by T. S. Eliot.

_This is the way the world ends._  
 _This is the way the world ends._  
 _This is the way the world ends._  
 _Not with a bang but a whimper._

The cab pulls up in front of your flat and you get out, staring up at it. It seems so neglected, you had spent so much of your time at Sherlock’s flat for the past few months. It’s cold and uninviting. Lonely. You sigh under your breath, resigned to the long task ahead of making your home seem like home again.

You unlock your door and pull it open, setting your things down in the hall. You can already feel it coming, the dam behind which you had kept all your buried feelings is about to break down. If only you could just make it to your bed before you collapse into tears.

But your flat is not unoccupied. A lamp is on in the sitting room, illuminating Sherlock on the sofa. He’s holding your letter in front of him. You stare at him in shock and as you stand speechless, he begins to read your letter aloud.

_“Sherlock,_

_You once told me to distract you. I’m surprised that I managed to do so for so long. Someone as brilliant and complex as you are… Somehow, I was the one you chose to be your partner for a few glorious months. The world seems clearer somehow, like a picture that’s finally come into focus because you taught me how to observe the tiniest details. But those times are over. I can’t distract you anymore. Someone else has taken that role and I can no longer compete._

_I’m sorry I didn’t stay to tell you personally. I don’t think I would’ve been able to leave if I saw you. But it is something I can no longer ignore or put off. Part of the reason we got along so splendidly is that I always knew when you wanted me there and when I would only get in the way. So this is me, getting out of your way. I wish you the best of luck in your cases, I know they mean the world to you. Goodbye Sherlock.”_

Sherlock looks up at you. His voice is gruff as though he’s been crying but when he looks at you, you see the fierce brightness in his eyes.

“Is this what you think?” he asks, and there’s a disbelief mixed in with frustrated anger, “That you’re just a distraction for me?” Somehow your tongue starts working again, and you ask uncomprehendingly, “Aren’t I?” Sherlock lets out a huff and laces his fingers under his chin.

“Of all the cases that I’ve solved, all the criminal motives I’ve seen through, the fact that you can believe that is a mystery to me,” he says with the slow deliberateness of someone just as confused as you. Finally your shock wears off and bitterness replaces it.

“Is Irene such a mystery?” you ask quietly, but there is an underly challenge to Sherlock to refute it.

“I… how do I explain so you understand?” he mutters into the air as if he expects the answer to present itself, “I respect Irene as an intellectual opponent. But I don’t want an intellectual opponent.”

Sherlock pauses, his voice dropping an octave as he shifts into a whisper, “I want you.”

At his words your body becomes rigid, going into lockdown mode. Your heart wants so desperately to believe what he’s saying but your mind keeps bringing up all the reasons you left in the first place. It took you weeks to leave behind your broken relationship. It would take a hell of a lot more than a few sentences to mend it back together.

“It was a ploy, don’t you see? I needed Irene to think that I was attracted to her so she would let her guard down. None of it was real,” he pleads with you.

“Why did you send me away then?” you demand.

“How could I possibly convince her of my affection for her if I was constantly bringing you with me? I needed to make it seem as though we were distant and not involved with each other.”

“Yeah well, you certainly succeeded in that regard,” you mutter.

“I didn’t think for one second that I would convince you as well. I didn’t think it was necessary to explain. I thought you knew me better than that!” Sherlock exclaims.

You shake your head, overwhelmed by the new information. The weeks of silent misery and heartbreak are making it almost impossible to think rationally and make any sense of what he’s saying.

“Please, let me convince you of the truth. That’s all I ask,” Sherlock says, voice rough with emotion he usually suppresses. He stands and comes towards you and you can see his resolute intent in the way he walks. Your body is still rigid, still fighting him. He stops in front of you and lifts his hand to your face. You flinch, but he’s merely brushing some wayward strands of hair out of your face, tucking them behind your ear.

“I won’t hurt you,” Sherlock promises but his words make you look down at the floor, tears threatening to spill over in your eyes. You tug on the sleeve of your left arm subconsciously, fingers twisting into the fabric. The motion does not go unobserved by him. Sherlock gently takes your wrists in his hands and this time, you really do wince. Gingerly, he pulls back your sleeve, eyes widening at discolored fingerprints creating a patchwork of blue and purple against the pale inside of your forearm. Dotting the mottled background are the crisscross of inflamed nail marks.

“Who did this to you?” he demands, his voice gone deadly quiet. You tug at your arm, wanting nothing more than to pull the sleeve back down and hide the ugliness from him. He releases your wrist and instead catches your chin, forcing you to look at him. You stare at the ceiling above his head, anywhere but his eyes.

“I did,” you whisper, ashamed. Sherlock stares at you, horrified. You wish he hadn’t seen it. His head bows, and for the first time, he loses the inexplicable air of confidence he always carries around with him.

“No. I did this to you,” he says in a hushed tone, “I hurt you in ways I didn’t even know I was capable of…” Sherlock lifts your wrist and bends to kiss the marks, the light coolness of his lips soothing some of the sting on your skin. At this point you’ve given up actively resisting him and instead you simply go limp in his grasp, unresponsive. It’s impossible to fight him. But that doesn’t mean you have to comply. Sherlock lifts you up, carrying you against his body as he makes his way to your bedroom. Your face has fallen against his chest and you breathe in that intoxicating scent of fresh rain that you missed so much.

He sets you down and you lay against the pillows eyes closed. Your eyes flutter as Sherlock begins to trace the planes of your face over and over and over again, the repetition comforting you. He kisses your hair.

“I love the way you pull your hair back into sleek ponytails so it doesn’t get in your face when you’re running all over London with me. I love the tangled, windswept mess it becomes when you forget,” Sherlock purrs into your ear, your hair tickling your neck as he moves back. He kisses your throat.

“I love the way you sing when we’re walking through the park together. Soft, yet fierce, quiet, and yet it carries.” He kisses your still closed eyes.

“I love the way you see me. You don’t see me as a freak or a machine. You see me as human, something I have striven so hard to forget. But you,” he places a fingertip on your nose, “you remind me every day why being human is not a bad thing.” Sherlock kisses your lips, parting them easily to allow him entrance.

“I love what you say. Your intelligent remarks always give me insight. The way you have with sarcastic, witty humor. But never cruel. And most of all, your kindness that offers the perfect counterpart to my acidic comments. No matter the situation, you never have a bad thing to say.” He moves downward and presses a kiss to your heart.

“But most of all, I love you.”

You are undone.

Silent tears of relief and joy start to stream down your face. You sit up to look at him and Sherlock lifts his head so that your noses are touching. He wipes away some of the tears with his thumb. The pent up frustrated emotions finally break forth and you lean forward suddenly kissing him.

You can’t breathe, you don’t want to. You can feel the smile in his mouth and he breaks away gasping but you don’t let him away for long before colliding with him once more. You reclaim those lips that you thought were lost to you, breathing in his scent as desperately as someone who had been suffocating from lack of oxygen. The rain of London sometimes seems oppressive, but Sherlock smells of springtime dew. He tastes of pine, evergreen, and mint. Cool but refreshing.

Your arms are wrapped tightly around him but it’s not tight enough to convince your body that he’ll never leave again. The ironbound grip born of the fear that you would never hold him again binds him against you so that the lean lines of your bodies mesh gracefully together, whole once more. He doesn’t resist but rather presses himself against you just as insistently, trying to forget the letter that almost took you away from him. You stay this way for a long while, gradually calming down the panic in your chest.

You release him, and Sherlock intertwines his long slender fingers with yours. Violin hand in hand with piano, your physical forms just as complementary to each other as the musical duets you play. He leans his forehead against yours.

“Have I convinced you yet?” Sherlock asks. You grin, glad to be at last reunited.

“Not quite.” He gives a rumbling laugh that resonates through your core. Sherlock moves behind you, pulling your long dark waves of hair over your shoulder. He pulls your sweater dress up gradually in one fluid motion revealing your form to him. Sherlock slides the soft material over your shoulders and pulls you back against him, resting his head on your shoulder. You turn your head to press a kiss to his cheek along the sharp curve of his facial structure.

He had been working on the Irene case for far longer than it usually takes him. So it had been a while since the last time. Over the course of the long interval and the resulting misery you had almost forgotten what it felt like to be desired by someone who loved you so deeply. Sherlock memorizes the contours of your body and your legs entangle in such a way that will make it difficult to separate. But that’s just fine with you.

Sherlock makes love to you smoothly, fluidly, falling into natural patterns, rhythms and flows. There is no subjugation of one to the other but rather the coming together of two streams to form one river, moving in unison. The pleasure radiating from both of you soothes aching hearts and broken bonds.

You fall exhausted on the bed afterward. Sherlock gently pulls the sheets over you, tucking himself against you and you instinctively curl up in his strong arms. You know you’re safe there. He will protect and defend you as surely as you will be a haven for him.

“I will never leave you,” he whispers into your ear, stroking your hair comfortingly. The rhythmic sound of your combined breathing lulls you into sweet dreams. You fade from consciousness aware of his presence around you, confident it will be there when you awake.


End file.
